


Shall we sleep, my love?

by givelourrylove



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Divorced Louis, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Louis-centric, M/M, harry is so sweet guys, i actually put angst in there yeah, if thats what you call it, louis has a kid, louis is a dad, partly bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:32:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givelourrylove/pseuds/givelourrylove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is so much sincerity in Harry’s voice. So much that says you, Louis, I look forward to seeing you, you and your soft eyes and your petite body, just you, you, you, but Louis forces himself to ignore that. To gulp it down again, sizing up the lump that had formed beneath his lungs, possibly reappearing any time and choking him with everything he decided not to think about for the past year.</p><p>or Louis loses his job as a teacher, has to move out and find somewhere to live. A certain someone named Harry offers his home to Louis and his son. Pining, crying and reading bedtime stories involved.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shall we sleep, my love?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LaDiDah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDiDah/gifts).



> I picked the title from Tyler Knott Gregsons collection of poems (chasers of the light).
> 
> Also this is for everyone who was so so so patient with me, special note to all the lovelies from the fic exchange itself but also the lovely muffin that submitted this prompt I fell deeply in love with. I hope it turned out well.

How was Louis going to explain this to his son? His mother? His ex-wife? Not that _she_ would care anyway. Everything she would do is drag him into court and take Collin away from him. God knows for how long she had been awaiting the chance.

The thing was: Louis did know he had been having a hard time. At home, work, whatever. For the past weeks Collin had been sick continuously. His immune system seemed to have open house for all diseases it would randomly encounter on the streets. In addition, Collins last appointment at the dentist didn’t really benefit the entire situation of Louis’ financial and social difficulties; Collin was in need of braces. _“It’s urgent, Louis. I know you two are struggling a bit right now, but I advise you to fix this”_ – the doctor with a degree in dentistry from Manchester pointed at the radiograph of Collins teeth – “ _as soon as possible or Collin will have grave difficulties in the future.”_

Besides that Louis was struggling more than ‘a bit’ – as his Manchester doctor said so nicely – he was not fond of his child’s dentist confronting him about his monetary situation either, nonetheless, he was right. Louis refused to let his lack of money have its influence on his son’s life.

That is how he happened to drive to the dentist five times a week due to the incredible pain Collin claimed to feel in his entire mouth. It worked for the first two weeks, but the acceptance he received at his workplace (he taught French and Philosophy at a Community College) shrunk every time he left early for work and a substitute teacher had to replace him.

Four weeks after the first time Louis attended the dentist with Collin during third period, the head master had called him into the office to inform him about how they just couldn’t afford him anymore. He had only worked there for two and a half years, not even closely enough to have a safe place that would keep him from being fired.

And that is how the story went. At least they had found the mercy to sack him on a Friday, which gave him time to collect all his supplies and the chance not to do it in front of the entire personnel. It gave Louis more time to recollect himself, think about his plans (what plans?) and schedule his new everyday life with presumably no job for the next weeks (no one wanted a single-parent with a bachelor’s degree in French and Philosophy).

Surprisingly, even that worked fine for a couple of days. Collin didn’t question why papa dropped him off at school every day instead of walking him to the bus stop. He didn’t find it odd that papa cooked proper breakfast now (eggs, toast and even some pancakes on Wednesday) or that he didn’t have to wait for papa to finish his conversation with his working colleagues Jeff and Judy.

Louis was about to pat his own shoulder when his self-complimenting action was to be interrupted by a fatal letter he had found in his bedroom drawer.

Louis’ tired eyes scanned over the words, making out phrases like _‘unpaid rent’, ‘high debt’_ and _‘last warning’._

It looked rude in the way only _Times New Roman_ could look.

“No, god please, no.” (His words were exactly the same as Michael Scott’s in that episode of _The Office_ that everyone knows. Only that Louis might have been a little calmer)(which would change later on.)

Louis was a grown man with a 6-year-old kid, he knew better than getting sadly and insanely drunk. He decided to ring his mother for help.

“Louis, why, I certainly haven’t heard from you in a while. How are you?” Which was a lie. In fact, Louis had called her only a month ago (how long was that in mom-time?) to ask her to look after Collin for when he had to attend a school celebration he didn’t want to attend. Secretly, Louis avoided asking his mother for help, not wanting to stress and bother her more than necessary. (Just because Louis was a father, didn’t mean he grasped the concept of grandmothers.) Yet here he was because _this_ issue couldn’t be fixed by begging his working colleagues and old friends from uni to help him out _just this one time._

None of the Tomlinsons were big fans of small talk (“And then she told me about her dog’s surgery! Its surgery, Louis! All I wanted was her to cut my hair, not tell me about her poor suffering dog!”), especially on the phone, so Louis dove straight into it. He decided not to question whether it was the right idea. (He just couldn’t grasp why he should be talking about Collins favourite new toy or what not when he had bills he didn’t know how to pay.)

“Mom? Listen-“ He didn’t even have to take a breath before speaking. “I lost my job and I now I can’t pay my rent.” Hesitation. “And by _I can’t pay my rent_ I mean there is no way I can. One of the rates was due two months ago. I wonder why they haven’t thrown us out yet.”

*

Louis didn’t have to repeat himself even once. His mother knew about his situation. It wasn’t like she hadn’t gone through something frighteningly alike. The tears Louis’ eyes had prepared (the Tomlinsons were a very emotional family. Everyone had their doubts inviting them to weddings… or funerals) were yet to fall. He didn’t allow himself to cry due to how serious and objective his mother had been throughout their entire phone call.

The suggestions she made were partly very poor, party genius and 85% _I’m absolutely not doing this._ They agreed on one point though (yes, one): Louis and Collin couldn’t afford to keep the apartment, neither could they (he, actually) afford living in a hotel, _neither_ could they move to his mother’s place, almost three hours away from Cambridge. Louis refused to let his misery become Collin’s as well, meaning he wouldn’t ever agree with dragging him away from his current school.

While Louis wrote down a list of friends with apartments close to their soon to be abandoned one and Collins school, his mother had had a certain person in mind ever since Louis had stated the idea of crashing at a friend’s place.

“So, I have _Jeff_ , who works at my – uh, the school. But he lives with his girlfriend so that might be a problem. I wrote down _Marcus_? His house is huge and he might still remember me from third semester-“

“Oh, Marcus is that handsome guy, isn’t he? The one who sent us a Christmas card of him and his boyfriend in Dubai back in 2012?”

“Yeah.” Louis crosses Marcus from the list. “Now, let me think. Technically, I could ask _Lea_. I mean she doesn’t like _me_ but she loves Collin.”

His mother eventually interrupted his never-ending, desperate rambling about people – _friends_ – he would not even want to live with. Ever. Not even for a week.

“Louis, hey, I’ve actually got an idea. Someone of whom I’m sure would love to offer you and Collin an accommodation. You know, I wonder why you haven’t thought of Harry before… Harry Styles?”

And no, Louis hadn’t thought of Harry Styles before. He actually avoided thinking of him. He was the kindest person he knew. Not just _nice_ but insanely, almost scarily kind ( _almost_ ) if he wasn’t dressed as _Billy, the friendly banana_ every Halloween, giving away home-made cookies, scones and cupcakes to all the children and the desperate and hungry adults.

What was he doing now, anyway? Louis believed that the last time they met, he worked at the BBC.

Collin liked Harry (who didn’t?); they hadn’t met often, but when they did Collin seemed quite cheerful and wasn’t persistently hiding behind Louis’ leg all the time, pulling the fabric of his pants for no proper reason.

Harry and Louis had always been good friends. Although something – some nerve, some reflex or whatever the human body consists of – always seemed to punish Louis for using the term _good friends_ on him because Louis, his nerves, his reflexes and all the whatevers of his body were painfully aware of Louis wanting to be more. Being good friends was never enough. And it still wasn’t.

On the other hand, his finances were also lacking of enough-ness. Harry seemed like the perfect solution for him and Collin. Especially Collin.

Louis’ mother had set him an ultimatum: his decision was to be made by Saturday night, which gave him three and a half days to have the inner debate he feared so badly.

*

It was Saturday night and Louis made his decision, sitting at the kitchen table with his phone and three empty mugs of tea by his side. Shaky hands and mud-brown circled stains on the white surface. On his screen, the name _Harry Styles_ was flickering brightly. The letters ‘H’ and ‘S’ stinging in his tired eyes attempting to destroy his retina and reminding him of times – months -  when he so desperately wanted to have those initials engraved onto his skin.

The old, countless times replayed record of a conversation that was yet to happen (or not) kept repeating in Louis’ head.

_“That’s pretty sudden, Louis. I can’t meet up, I’m busy.”_

_“We haven’t talked in ages and now you want to catch up? Has Frances left you again?”_

_“No, Louis. I’m sorry. I have a boyfriend living with me.”_

Or worse:

_“No, Louis. I’m sorry. I have a girlfriend living with me.”_

Louis hoped – he knew – Harry was going to be gentle with him. It was Harry after all.

Louis tapped on the screen and lifted the device to his ear, the dull beep noise prodding at his eardrum.

Louis hoped for Harry to hesitate before picking up like he hoped for him to but he was disappointed: Harry picked up on the first ring. His steady, cheery voice that made questions sound like stars and answers sound like the tide, that made phrases like ‘go on’ sound like he was ready to listen to you for the rest of his life, it… _Where was I?_

His voice had changed only slightly since the last time Louis had heard it. It still held the warmth of burning wood, still held that familiar cracking noise of burning wood. It was beautiful. And it distracted Louis.

“Hii?” _My gosh, Harry was 26 years old and he answered the phone saying ‘Hii’?_ Louis was oddly endeared.

“Yeah, hi, Harry? This is- this is Louis.” He spoke quietly, as if he was scared to wake up Collin.

“Yes, I knew. I mean, I’ve seen it on… my phone. It said _Incoming call from Louis_. You know, like phones do.”

Surprisingly, Harry did not seem in the least awkward with what he was saying, quite contrary to Louis, who had already started fidgeting his hands and kicking his little feet with the kitten socks on.

“Exactly. Uhm, listen, Harry, I know this might be quite sudden, but would you like to catch up with me for let’s say lunch? Me and Collin, I mean.” His vocal chords felt like someone had lit them on fire and he could have sworn he felt a knife being gentle dragged across his arms, blade up, which made him feel hot and cold at the same time. Sweat was dampening the skin of his shuddering limbs.

“Sure! I’m free the entire week, so whatever will fit you both best…” Of course Louis was aware of Harry’s perpetual obligation of being accessibly six days a week, working in the music business, but he decided not to question Harry’s unusual amount of spare time. (Maybe he got fired too?)

“You know what, Harry, you should choose the date. Any day should be fine for me. Us.” There wasn’t a lot to do anyway. Louis had already started packing his things, his room looked cleaner than ever, the living room was the usual mess – he would tell Collin when he knew if they actually had a new place to live.

“If you’re sure. How about tomorrow? I mean I know it’s Sunday but-“

“Yes. Tomorrow is fine.”

Louis swears he can hear Harry’s grin on the other line. _iPhones now even transporting beautifully white teeth and wonderful pink lips to your ear! When will apple ever stop?_

“Where would you like to go, Louis? There’s a new restaurant near the park – the one with all the geese? They sell delicious pancakes. Up for it?”

Louis forcefully forgets about the fact that there are not actually _geese_ but _swans_ in the park.

“Pancakes for lunch? You do know I have a six year old son, Harry, right?” _Harry._ What a beautiful name. Rolls perfectly off your tongue yet makes you want to keep it held between your lips forever. Leaves behind a satisfying sound in your head. Louis never got over it.

“I-I do. We can go somewhere else – Applebee’s? No, that’s unhealthy… I could-“

“Harry. Pancakes sound perfect.”

“O-Ok. Good. I’ll text you the address? It’s not hard to find.”

“Yeah. Thank you, Harry.” He can’t help but feel a little sad. All of this reminds him of what he could have had. Had he not been at this exact place back at that exact moment. Trying to get the thoughts out of his head somehow – and onto the cold floor, sliding beneath the fridge where it belonged – he shakes his heavy head. The thoughts transfer from being a blockade somewhere in his brain to being a weight on his chest. Louis feels like he is being pushed down so he stands up and stands by the open window for a bit, breathing in the chilly air from outside.

Harry’s soft yet audible breathing followed by his calm hesitant voice at the other end regains his attention. “Are you okay, Louis? Is everything alright?”

And as much as Louis would like to tell everything that happened _right now_ , everything that he failed to keep off his mind for the past week – _weeks_ actually – everything that he is worried about, he knows it wouldn’t benefit anyone, neither him nor Collin nor Harry.

He gulps down the steadily growing lump in his throat _again_ , temporarily getting rid of the weights on his chest threatening to break his rips.

“Everything alright, H. And you? How have you been?” The art of distracting so wonderfully and subtly from your own feelings and the alike has been taught him by no other than his beloved (not anymore) ex-wife. The cold is now seeping through Louis’ bones and he closes the window.

Despite Harry’s slightly startled reaction to being brushed off so easily he answered with no change of his mood. “I’m good. Haven’t been really busy lately.”

Louis heard Harry smile through the line. A wackysilence followed after the smile and he decided to end the conversation before he’d start spilling his worries all over the place.

“ _I’ll be there any second, Collin!”_ Collin is sound asleep in his bed, door closed and Ben ,the old white bunny (not so white anymore – Louis had had Ben as a kid, too)  and his pink elephant Emma clamped tightly under his weak arms. Louis feels terrible for using such a poor excuse. “I’m sorry, Harry. I have to hang up, Collin is struggling to fall asleep.” _Lie._ “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah? 1pm.? Collin’s off at 12.”

“Oh, sure!” _Wacky silence._ “And Lou?”

Lou. _Lou._ **Lou. _Lou._** Louis certainly wasn’t expecting still being at nickname-basis with Harry. If he hadn’t paid his undivided attention to him like a cat observing its prey (a crumbled piece of paper, or whatever cats like), he’d certainly, _certainly_ , caught his attention with this.

“It was nice hearing from you. And like… I really look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

“Me and Collin.”

There is so much sincerity in Harry’s voice. So much that says _you, Louis, I look forward to seeing you, you and your soft eyes and your petite body, just you, you, you,_ but Louis forces himself to ignore that. To gulp it down again, sizing up the lump that had formed beneath his lungs, possibly reappearing any time and choking him with everything he decided not to think about for the past year.

“You and Collin.” Another audible smile fights its way through the line, though it isn’t as clear – not as loud – as the ones Louis received before.

“Alright, H. I – Good bye. I mean, good night. And thank you for picking up so instantly and… yeah.” _For being so kind and sweet even after we haven’t talked in ages!!!_

“Good night, Louis.” Harry waits for him to hang up, Louis mumbles another _G’night_ and hangs up. He runs his cold fingers through his hair, draws them down his face and _gosh_ , he’s so gone for Harry. He never wanted Collin to like someone more than he hoped for him to like Harry, _to bloody love Harry._

As he walks to Collins room to give him another kiss for good night we won’t ever know of since he’s already asleep, he stumbles across his _play mobile_ doll, one of his stuffed animals and a plastic piece of meat from his mother’s play-kitchen and Louis curses himself and all the toy producers but he especially curses Harry because every single item to pierce into his feet reminds him of curly hair, green eyes and a smile that warms you better than hot chili soup.

*

At breakfast the next morning Louis tells Collin that after he’ll fetch him from play group they are going to have lunch with Harry. Collins excitement doesn’t bloom too splendidly, on the contrary to Louis’. Or maybe he just can’t tell apart _excitement_ from _neurasthenia._

Play group only lasts 2 hours so Louis never goes home during that time. On any other day he would have had some papers with him to correct but since that work has been taken off his shoulders, he just grabs a croissant from the nearest bakery and sits down on a nearby park bench, careful not to get too many crumbles on his carefully picked sweatshirt.

Although he knows he shouldn’t, he thinks a lot. About the rent, their apartment, about Collin and Harry. About what made them lose touch that certain while ago.

They still talked regularly when Louis invited him to his and Frances’ wedding, but the strength of their friendship seemed to weaken after Collins birth six months later.

Even though he is terribly aware of how he should start working out these things sometime soon, Louis pushed them away into the abyss of where he kept all the thoughts alike.

Two hours pass in quite a rush and Louis soon is on his way to the old kindergarten where the play group always takes place. Trying to hide his wildly shaking hands from the curious eyes of the other mothers and fathers, he quickly grabs Collins hand and says a quiet goodbye into the room.

“So how was play group today, Collin? Did you have fun?” Louis speaks when they leave the building. They are nowhere near late but Louis still impatiently tugs his son along behind him.

“Mhm. A lot. Abigail gave everyone lollipops today. I think I like Abigail.” Only now Louis notices the bright red candy in Collins hand, already shiny from spit, he had been eating it all along.

“Because she gave you a lollipop?”

“Mhm.”

He can’t help but roll his eyes fondly. Sometimes he thinks he sees Frances in him. Offering her a nice dinner had also helped him getting his way around.

“Collin, would you please put that lollipop away? I’m sure it’s very tasty but we’re having lunch with Harry and I want you to be hungry when we get there.”

“I’m still hungry when we get there, I promise.” Collin sticks it back into his mouth, happily skipping next to his father, who doesn’t see a point in taking away the candy and therefore arriving at the restaurant with a whiny and pouting kid, making a bad impression. He allows himself to forget about _values_ for a second.

Collin gets to sit when they’re on the bus and Louis crouches down in front of him, breathing in and carefully choosing his next words.

“Listen, pal. You remember Harry, right?” He shakes his head. _Wonderful prerequisite._

“Uhm… he’s got long curly hair, and he’s really tall. We saw him at aunt Lily’s some time ago.” The 6-year-old doesn’t look like any of his bells are being rung.

“How tall is he?”

“At least twice your size. Way taller than me, too. Sometimes he has to bow down so he doesn’t hit his head at the doorframe.” Louis feels stupid describing him like that, like he is telling some sort of fairy tale about _The Friendly Giant._ Which. That was one hell of an accurate description of Harry Styles.

“I remember him.” Louis waits for an addition, something to follow like _He’s nice_ or _I like him_ like Collin always does. Nothing. Louis gives up.

“See, I just want you to be nice to Harry, show him what a nice guy you are.” Trying to be reassuring, Louis squeezed his sons knee.

“I can do that.” _Gosh, Louis loves him._

They get off the bus after four more stops and find their way to the restaurant fairly easily.

*

Louis and Collin enter the restaurant alongside a fresh breeze of air, coaxing in the soft smell of spring and its blooms and blossoms with them. Harry immediately rises from his seat, knocking over an empty glass or two. He’s even taller than Louis remembered.

The two of them arrive at the table with their completely differently sized hands entwined and Collin reluctantly lets go of his father’s right one in order to allow him to shake hands with Harry. Louis might be completely and utterly wrong but he believes to feel disappointment in the warmth of Harry’s hands.

(Harry had longed to feel the warmth of Louis’ entire body pressed to him in a tight hug, rather than just his hand.)

They sit down, Collin next to Louis and Louis across from Harry. A waiter wearing an angrily white shirt (Louis hasn’t ever come across something like _that_.) appears next to table and asks for what drinks they wish.

“I’ll take a coke. And an apple juice for the little lad here.”

“A cuppa green tea, please.” Harry shots the waiter a friendly smile and then returns his attention to Louis ( _thank god_ ).

“Sleepless nights…” Louis nods, rearranging the fork to Collin’s right side because the boy cuts with his left one. “That’s why the coke.” He adds. _Is he giving away too much already? He said he was doing g.o.o.d. when they talked on the phone – why must he mention his sleepless nights?_

“Oh, how come?” There is an unhealthy amount of kindness in his voice, it makes Louis sick.

“I dunno. ‘S probably going to go away some time soon.” _Good one, Tommo._

Grabbing the menu, Louis turned towards Collin, who had started to unpack now, neatly placing all his colourful pens and his colouring book on the oak wood surface.

“Harry here said that they have really good pancakes, Col. So how about we all order a plate, huh?”

“Pancakes for lunch?” Excitement blossomed in his green eyes, lightening them up as if someone had just turned on the switch.

“Yes. Only today, because these are supposed to be very _special_ pancakes, alright?”

Collin nodded his head violently, his caramel coloured hair ( _alright, so he’s got Frances eyes, at least the hair is from Louis_ ) fanning out and landing in his face. His gawky kid-hands brushing them out of his face again. _Louis loved him so much. He wondered whether being_ this _in love with your kid was normal._

“Thank you, Harry.” Collin whispered quietly. The _kid_ kind of quietly, meaning even the waitress who just passed by the table must have heard him whispering.

Harry’s lips broke into a wide, sunny grin at that and Louis started to wonder whether maybe he was just a person to _fall_ very easily because he gave him about the same feeling as Collin did.

“My pleasure, Collin. You should try the pancakes with apple-sauce. They’re my favourite.”

 _Pancakes with apple sauce and grapes for Collin._  
Pancakes with strawberries and bananas for Harry.  
Pancakes with caramel sauce and apples and his teenage and uni crush with a gorgeous laugh and freshly reignited feelings for Louis.

_That’ll be 15 minutes. The last one may take a little longer._

 

*

The bridge from talking about banalities to _the actual issue_ is quickly to be built:

“So, how is it going at work? Are you still working at that community college?”

And _well,_ Louis certainly – _certainly_ – didn’t expect that rapid change of topic. He feels his heart sinking a bit, just below his ribcage, pounding in between and against other important organs now.

“Uhm… good, good.” He smiles a beautiful fake smile that he has been taught by Frances. (“Frances, are you happy? Like genuinely happy?” The answer: _fake smile_. The problem was that back then, Louis didn’t _know_ Frances’ favourite smiles were fake smiles.)

In that moment Louis decides to use Collins childish boredom for his advantage. Just this one time.

“Hey, Col? How about you go draw a little while we wait for our pancakes? Just to prevent the boredom, huh?”

He nods eagerly and Louis helps him scoot down the table to sit on the other end where he has more space to spread his beloved utensils. Then he scoots back up to his previous spot and takes a deep breath, preparing his lungs for what is yet to come.

“Listen, Harry. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” _Air! We need air!_ His lungs scream and shout and pound against his ribcage.

Harry’s eyes, his entire appearance change, slump together.

"I... uhm." _Air!_ "I was fired? Just the other week. And uhm." Louis digs his teeth into his thin lips, not to prevent him from crying but to prevent him from saying something he might regret (and to prevent him from crying, a little).

"Louis, I-" Harry reaches forward and in the corner of his narrowed eyes Louis thinks he sees Harry's hand moving from underneath the wooden table, possibly - _possibly_ \- to be reaching out to him.

"And you know, Collin's only recently got braces and we also just bought him a new bed and the money is just-" He pauses, fixing his stare at his lap and pushing the air out of his thirsty lungs. "We can't afford our apartment anymore."

 The Tomlinsons despised being pitied. Drown them in pity and they would drown you for real.

Louis isn't any different from his family and their feelings towards pity, yet he feels terribly reassured by the expression Harry carried when he told him about how 'well' he was doing in his job. Maybe it wasn't pity, what Harry's eyes said. Either way, Louis seemed to be deaf to whatever they were trying to let him know.

A view quiet seconds pass until Harry's deep, slow voice (Louis is so far gone, the way back is awfully long) makes Louis look up from his lap again.

"Louis, first of all... I'm so sorry. That's just - that's awful. Losing your job is- I'm sorry." (Louis fights the smile that's creeping up his guts and throat. That would be terribly inappropriate.)

"Does Collin know?"

Louis shakes his head, following Harry's gaze, who looks down to the other side of table where the little boy sits, silently drawing with a peaceful expression to his face that Harry has only ever seen a yoga teacher carrying. Neither the radio music playing not so quietly, nor the chattering of plates, the sound of glass and china on wood manage to distract Collin or even make him furrow his brows. Louis wonders if Harry sees it too, sees why he's so in love with his son.

"Won't he... Is he not going to hear what we're talking?" Harry murmurs, and Louis finds it quite endearing. _Air!_

"He gets quite caught up in drawing and painting, so don't worry." Louis smiles at Harry, then giving his son another look where he sits with his tongue out and his eyes focused intensely on a piece of paper.

“So, what I was going to- to ask you is…” Louis returns to the matter as quick as Tomlinsons do, just to have done it. No small talk. No tears. No nothing.

“Do you want to stay at my place?” Harry having ever said anything faster than _this_ is doubtful.

“I- what?”

“Until you’ve found an apartment for you. Or longer, you can stay as long as you want. You and Collin. I have a spare room.”

It takes a while for Louis’ brain to process the words Harry had just shot into the air, expecting him to catch them with open arms. In fact, Louis is still trying to form the question of asking Harry about allowing them to live with him for a while. Louis hopes Collin will not have inherited the speed of _his his_ thoughts.

“Are you – You’d do that? I mean-“ Louis can’t even manage a weak ‘thank you’ to the waiter who places his pancakes beneath his dropped chin.

“Thank you, sir.” Harry shots the man a smile that is almost too genuine, if Louis had not seen the smile he gave _him_ when they entered the restaurant. “Of course! I’d love to have you – you two – be my guests.” And Harry looks so content, so happy with himself and so happy with Louis, so happy to be sitting at this oak wood table in these fancy chairs with a messed up, tired looking guy vis à vis.

“Isn’t this too sudden? Don’t you need time to like _think_?”

Harry looks in the air for a moment, pretending to think with this stupid look in his eyes and this _smirk_ on his lips that Louis wants to suck right off his face. _No_. “Hm. Thought about it. Still doing it.”

That playful, hardly audible edge to his voice fades as rapidly as it appeared and Harry leans in a few inches closer from across the table.

“I’m serious, alright? Friends are always welcome in my home. Especially you.”

And now _that_ definitely could _not_ be considered a smile Harry aimlessly shoots at waiters at restaurants and bars.

*

That evening Louis and Collin share a bath, surrounded by both: pink soapy bubbles and a variety of little plastic boats, dogs, Barbie dolls and dinosaurs. Louis is cradling the little lump of the bathing bomb that has yet to vanish in his hands while Collin lets one of his dolls do plunges from Louis’ leg inside the water.

“So Col, what do you think of Harry?” Nervously fiddling the fizzing leftovers of the bathing bombs, Louis starts to play with Collins little toes ( _he’s ticklish. Frances feature. God, Louis had loved that about her._ ).

Beautiful childish and loud giggles erupt from Collin’s chest and he kicks his feet, splashing the warm pink water everywhere on the pale white tiles.

“Stop it, papa!” Louis eventually stops when he gets hit in the face by one of Collin’s feet.

They settle down again after a minute or two before Louis steps out of the bathtub getting dressed in his pyjamas, then helping Collin out and drying him with his fluffy red towel and wrapping him up in his bathing robe.

“Harry is very nice, papa. And his hair is funny.”

Louis chuckles lightly. “Well, that’s good. He’s a very sweet one. Just like you, eh? I’m glad that you like him. Because, uhm, listen… we might live with him… for a while?” Spoken, shot into the damp bathroom air, it sounded like a question he didn’t dare to ask his own son.

“Does he have pets? A dog? You know, Lucas has a dog and he says he’s almost like his sister, so he’s practically human.” Louis _loves_ his son. But _God_ , he can’t ever stick to the matters.

“I don’t know if he has a dog, Collin. Maybe he’s got a cat. He looks more like a cat person, don’t you think?”

Collin does a tortured face when Louis spreads a thick layer of Nivea cream on his face.

“Grandma has a cat. I hope Harry doesn’t. Puppet scratches me all the time even though I don’t do anything. And she never brings back the sticks I throw.” Louis hums and hands Collin his tooth brush, telling him to be more careful than last time (he was fairly enthusiastic this morning, making his gums bleed).

After that he walks Collin to bed and picks out a master thesis for the Sunday bed-time-story. (Since Louis can’t really afford buying more books than they already have, they’d started reading some of the essays Louis’ students had to hand in every two months. Whereas the philosophy ones happened to be more interesting for Collin que les textes en français.)

Louis puts the dark green folder on the bedside table before he covers Collin’s small body with the blanket.

“Collin? I need to tell you something, and I want you to listen carefully, okay, love?” And this one time he understands that his father is being serious and he really needs him to listen, his previously spoken words framed by his furrowed eyebrows, the creases on his forehead and his cold hands (they always are) playing with the ear of Collin’s pink elephant.

“You know that money isn’t overly important, yeah?” Collin nods and keeps his attention on his father. “I know you do, you’re a smart boy, Collin.” That makes him smile and Louis mentally notes to let him know that more often. “But you see, money isn’t completely unimportant either. We need to pay lunch somehow and we also pay for our house? For all this…” He gestures his hand around the room, nearly hitting his hand on the bookshelf above Collin’s bed.

“And usually I get that money from work but I don’t work anymore now, I have to a find a new job, yeah?”

“Why? Where you fired?”

And _damn_ , Louis hoped deeply that Collin was just a bit too oblivious, a bit too dreamy to ask him about this, to _know_ about this. But just like he said; Collin is a smart boy.

“I-yeah. They sent me off because… because they thought I didn’t fit that good into… it all.” Louis should have thought this through way more, sparing him the fishing for words he was currently doing.  “So I can find a job that’s more fun for me, you know?”

_Bullshit. Louis had quite enjoyed the job, he liked the students and the colleagues. He liked the way everyone turned in their thesis neatly and in time. It would have been a perfect kick-off for his further career. Would have been if he hadn’t been fired. Damn it._

“So you don’t have money anymore?” Louis would have felt like crying if it wasn’t for how objectively Collin said that.

“Not enough for everything, no. That’s why I told you we’re going to live with Harry. Because _right now_ we don’t have enough money for this house.”

“That’s not a problem, papa.” He crawls out of bed, shoving the blanket down to his naked feet and quickly stepping to the other side of the room, grabbing a little _Spiderman_ box from a shelf he can hardly reach.

“Grandma Giselle gave me money for my last birthday and I kept it until now! We can use that, papa!” He empties the box on the bed and various neatly folded bills fall out on the mattress. Louis doesn’t want to count.

“That’s 87 pounds, Lucas and I counted.” The look of pride on Collin’s face is beautiful, radiating from his eyes that are so much like Frances’, reflecting in his smile that hopefully he has somehow inherited from Louis. At least back when he and Frances were still together, her mother Giselle had always claimed that. Frankly, Louis doesn’t want to know the words she throws about him _now_.

Louis squeezes Collin’s shoulder. “That’s a lot of money, Col, but we’re not going to use it. I want you to keep those savings so you can buy something you _really really_ want later on.”

(Louis spends the rest of the night thinking about what _he_ really really wants and whether maybe it’s a _whom_ he’s thinking about, rather than a _what_.)

“What we’re going to do, Collin, is we are going to pack everything this week and Harry is going to help us bring all the stuff to his house, yeah?”

[…]

The packing goes more smoothly than Louis would have dared to expect. They break a couple of vases and find out that they’re missing various lids to some pans. The weird smell coming from a closet turns out to be not teenage Louis’ confused and dead corpse but a plant that he forgot there and therefore starting decomposing itself.

The rest of the apartment is all well, the walls don’t sport extraordinarily big stains and the floor doesn’t look like Louis has ever forgotten to wipe up any coffee that he has spilled.

Louis friendly declined when Harry asked if they needed help with packing, which – _of course_ – made Harry ask whether he was going too far, invading his privacy, whether he was being even the slightest bit intrusive and _God, no,_ that wasn’t what Louis intended. (He feared he would be crying when closing the door for the last time, the door he’d been opening every day for the past years, at least once to get the newspaper that was carelessly thrown into the corner every day. Crying when handing the key to the receptionist who’d given him an odd look the day he marched up to her saying their heating refused to work and he _craved_ a warm bathroom, or when he told her he wanted to speak to the landlord, _we’re moving out._ )

To his surprise, the bass of Louis’ tears never dropped, possibly because Collin was being so tough about all this, waving their white front door good-bye like he waved at him in the morning before happily running into the school building.

 _Maybe though_ , maybe the reason was a certain pink-lipped, curly-haired guy who’d be waiting for them both to come down with the last three IKEA boxes. (God knows how much _less_ money Louis would have if he hadn’t stuck to Swedish furniture _Mammut_ and _Skojig_ for Collin’s new room about a year ago.)

[…]

“Welcome in your new home!” Harry smiles warmly, his lips are pink like the sun on rare occasions.

The house is different than Louis expected, but it screams _Harry_ from all corners and gaps. Behind the corridor, a wide living room extends itself, bordered by windows with dark wooden frames. There is a little fireplace where countless of not-matching pillows are sprawled out across a sofa and there is a fairly large TV across two more sofas in the centre of the room.

Harry suggest to give them a house tour first and then unpack and as much as Louis hates delaying work like this, he can neither resist Harry’s soft grin nor can he keep up with how fast he’s moved to the next room already.

 

So of course Louis has pondered about sleeping arrangements for a long time, debating where he makes the least problems, another time debating where he gets most of Harry’s attention (in _his_ bed, obviously). He prepares for an answer when they reach the first floor, which is presumably where Harry’s bedroom as well as the guest room is situated.

“So, uh… that’s where the bedrooms are, here’s mine and down the hall is the guest bedroom and the bathroom. If you want to, you can share the bedroom? Or Louis,” Louis turns his head too quickly to show any sign of subtlety. “you could also sleep in my room, if you want… and I’ll take the couch so Collin can have his own room.”

Despite the excited look on his sons face at the mention of his own room, Louis nudges his shoulder and shakes his head slightly. “There’s no way you’re taking the sofa, H.” _We both should take the bed._ “Collin and I will share, that’s the best solution.” And if Louis could judge then he’s say his smile does a fairly good job at hiding the desire he’d fought down.

Harry nods curtly and pulls up the corners of his mouth, turning around with squeaking shoes. He opens the door to the guest room and softly nudges Collin’s shoulder, making him enter the room first.

And Louis sighs deeply, trying to save that picture, the picture of Harry’s large hands wrapped up in rings on Collin’s small shoulder under blue cotton.

The room he and Collin are going to share has a good size for two people. A bed that looks more comfortable than Louis’ is propped up against a white wall, leaving enough space for them to shove another rather small sized bed into the room. Louis hopes Collin will feel at least a little like home here.

*

Late afternoon they sit on the kitchen table, each of them in front of a flawlessly white plate with flawlessly cooked chicken, peas and rice on it. (Harry cooks heavenly.)

Soft music ( _Regina Spektor? The Civil Wars? Daughter? H a r r y ?_ ) in the far background prevents any kind of uneasy silence to fill up the room, the way some harmful kind of gas would, _Nitrogen, Monoxide, something like that – Louis didn’t study Chemistry or whatever._ Thing is: music – no silence – happy everyone.

They plan some stuff that Louis has been tossing and turning about for the past weeks. School arrangements, job arrangements, _living arrangements._ Frankly, Louis had at all costs avoided to think about this, avoided to let any of these thoughts sink into his brain and make a nest there and supply him with migraine.

It had to come up eventually, and now it does and it’s not half as blood-curdling as Louis expected, mainly because Harry manages it astoundingly well with his black Moleskine and his little agenda and his _reading glasses._ ( _God, Harry has reading glasses and Louis knows he actually needs them too but he couldn’t bring himself to buy them just yet, thinking they’d look ridiculous but g o d, Harry looks like the smartest man alive._ )

They settle on Louis bringing Collin to school until he finds a new job and gets his new working hours and Harry getting Collin home so Louis can properly get into his search. Harry happily volunteers to cook dinner, Louis finds out _again_ that Harry likes being the chef (not that he didn’t know, they’ve had ambrosial dinners back in their old days already).

 

Later that night, when Collin is fighting bravely to keep his eyes open, Louis puts him to bed, somewhat guiltily covering him with Harry’s sheets (being busied with moving all the furniture from the van outside to the flat, they didn’t have time to sort out such banalities as their own bed sheets).

“You did great today, Col. I’m very proud of you and I thank you for helping me and Harry so much.” He gives him a soft kiss, but Louis is not to know whether the tired little lad’s conscience was patient enough to witness, thus his previous words go unnoticed just like his lips; his sons little body resting heavily with fatigue on the soft mattress.

Louis carefully closes the door and trips down the stairs, joining Harry at the kitchen table, who _oh._ Who has prepared a glass of dark-red wine for each of them. He takes his seat across from him, his ankles crossed beneath the table and a slumping twist to his posture.

“Are you seducing me with pricy liquor, Styles?” His eyes scan Harry generously, taking in every attribute that created Harry from the roots of his hair to the crease where his upper and forearm met – the inside of his elbow. (That was how far he could see from where Harry was hiding his hands and lower half beneath the table)

“I thought it was worth a try.” Harry laughs – _snorts_ – remarkably attractive. A foolish grin pulls at the corners of his lips that cannot yet compete with the deep rich colour of the wine.

“Well it certainly seems like you do remember my predilection for red wine.” His hands sneak out to take the glass, fingers flexed and smile smug to suppress his shaky hands and quivering _everything._ It works.

Harry just shrugs and raises his glass, whispering an all too quiet ‘cheers’ when his and Louis’ collide softly.

“Thank you again, H. Seriously, I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re an angel, I must say.” Louis says in a voice he interprets as a cheery one.

“It’s fine, really.” Harry takes another sip of his wine, swallowing and making a face that lets Louis assume he has yet to say something. “I’m glad to have company. It’s a bit lonely here, anyway.”

And Louis hasn’t ever had doubts in Harry not having changed and still being this kind pigeon-toe of a person but this charme, this appeal, this innocent yet seducing warmth of his has always been there, radiating this feeling that makes everyone’s guts churn, makes everyone’s knees weak, makes everyone feel feverish, makes everyone think:

_I am special to him, he is radiating, I must be somewhat beautiful._

And Louis thinks that he is not to blame for thinking that Harry might have had more than just a couple excessive nights, a couple one night stands, during the time their contact was on old. _Charm. Appeal. Radiating._ And well, he doesn’t _know_ , maybe he did, maybe he _does_ (God, please, no, Louis doesn’t want to wake up to creaking noises from the bed nearby nor is he keen on finding half naked ladies and gentlemen who carry enough beauty to sleep with Harry but never enough to compete with him, standing by the fridge in his t-shirts that he – Louis, himself – so badly wants to wear, making themselves a home by taking milk and eggs and orange juice that – _no,_ he doesn’t want to see that.)

But offering his home to a befriended father plus child lets him assume that Harry has got no intention of allowing mentioned guests appearances in his kitchen – and hopefully his bedroom.

Eventually Louis manages to get some of the oxygen his brain has taken strict possession of back into his lungs. (He didn’t do his master’s degree in Biology for a reason, shutupandthankyou.) “Well, Collin is certainly going to keep us two at the edge of ours seats. He can be very vibrant sometimes.” _Which is a lie because Collin is a very quiet child, always picking drawing over doing anything that involves clamour and noise and being loud but Louis really just wanted to let Harry know… let him know that… what was he doing._

“I’m lying, Harry. Collin is a quiet kid. You won’t hear a lot from him, he just draws most of the time or plays with his dolls and ships.” He does this weird hand gesture that he wishes he could suppress, but no chance.

“’s fine. I’ve never been a handful, either. Always preferred reading and painting over… sports and what not.” A reassuring smile shoots from Harry’s lips into Louis’ direction. Louis, who renounces to mention that he’d always been the loud one, the one to scream and shout, the one to partly encourage, partly force people to do what he wanted them to do.

_Thank God, Collin didn’t inherit that part. Some days, Louis hated himself for being like this, and he wouldn’t ever want his son to feel the same way._

“Well, you know me, footie’s always been my thing.”

Of course Harry remembers. He remembers cheering when Louis played. For Louis. He remembers standing on the plastic seats in the top row of the bleachers, cheering and waving and earning odd looks and damp hair and wet shoes and punches to his gut because _wrong team, faggot._ Remembers keeping a protective arm around Louis’ waist when he hurt his shin. Remembers shooting hateful glances towards _that fella who kicked my shin_ , promising revenge he never took because that wouldn’t have benefited anyone.

They end the conversation and their wine after that, Louis excusing himself to check on Collin.

 

It’s night #1 and Harry feels like he’s blooming, planting his roots in the gaps of this wall that’s been so cold and lifeless all along. His heart pumping oxygen, his aorta providing even the tips of his fingers with warmth and fond and _Louis_ , branches, his arms, reaching out to the sun again.

*

The next morning doesn’t pass as smoothly as Louis had imagined. Collin won’t get up at the agreed time, takes too long in deciding what he wants for lunch, accidentally ties the shoelaces of his trainers together.

While he ushers his son out the door, Harry leans against the kitchen counter rather casually, sleepily actually and waves them good-bye, his lips tinted with a tender smile and his stupid cat mug held safely between his hands.

After dropping him off at school only 5 minutes early instead of 15 – _ha_ , he thinks, _in college you all will be trying your hardest to be_ only _twenty minutes late_ – he makes his way to the various retailers desperately searching for employees that his mother had mailed him two days ago.

_Mendl and Heinz’ office supplies, near Mackenzie Road_

_Couchtomato DVD rental/video library, near Ross Street Community Centre_

_Octavia’s organic groceries, with an address Louis hasn’t ever heard of, sounds like somewhere he wouldn’t want to set a foot…_

But Louis told himself not to be picky this time so he heavy-heartedly walks back to the bus station to make his way to… well, hopefully _work._

And in fact, after _Mendl and Heinz_ and _The Couchtomatos_ or whatever they call themselves – Louis wasn’t keen on working there anyway – turn him down with the rationale of him being _a little older than what they are searching for,_ whatever that was supposed to mean for _Mendl and Heinz_ , Louis walks in at _Octavia’s organics_ at 10.15 and walks out at 10.21 with a new job, a pleased smile on his face and a paper bag full of organic groceries he was given for free. He loves elderly ladies with a newly ignited love for organic, biological and _fair_ food, yet Louis feels a guilty kind of relief that he doesn’t count his mother as one.

On that account, he arrives at Harry’s house (home?) being more radiate than he’s been in weeks. There’s a peculiar bounce in his step, one that no one has witnessed since Louis met Frances.

He stuffs some leftover decoration and toys into the drawers under the guest bed and then scuffles to the end of the hall, empty cardboard boxes stapled high in front of his chest. The other day Harry told him to store all his empty boxes and stuff that isn’t of great necessity in there.

Louis opens the door very art- and skilfully with his elbow, then rubs his shoulder against the wall inside until he feels a nub that indicates the light switch. The little chamber enlightens. Louis spots some free space in a corner and deposits his boxes there.

 The light is still dim and the weak lamp from the hallway only illuminates a narrow ray of the gloom. Only mere inches alongside the illuminated wall rests an astoundingly high pile of books with a stack of paper on top. And Louis wouldn’t have picked up none of it if he didn’t have this odd habit of scanning his proficient eyes over anything that resembled essays and theses.

Harry hadn’t locked it away or hidden the papers, so it couldn’t be exceptionally private. And it wasn’t.

_Brida_

_Eleven Minutes_

_The Devil and Miss Prym_

_Veronika decides to die_

_The Alchemist_

_The Witch of Portobello_

Louis’ eyes stop scanning the spines of the books and move to the papers that lay on top of them.

_Who was Paulo Coelho?_

_Analysis – The Alchemist_

_Summary, The Winner stands alone_

The pages, held together by brackets, lie heavily in Louis’ hands. Stacks of 20, maybe 30 pages. Some only 10. Some loose sheets.

 _by Harry Styles_ is written in the bottom right corner of every first page. Louis imagines them to be papers he had to hand in for some lectures, drafts maybe. However, Harry’s major was actually far from any of the universes _Paulo Coelho_ had shaped. Also the year was missing, the name of the professor, some were not typed but written in a clean yet somewhat hurried-looking script. This can’t be what Louis reckoned it was.

Yet all the papers, the _Paulo Coelho_ s drawn across so many pages, on the spines of countless books, remind Louis of his own master thesis.

_‘Veronika decides to die’ and its relations to self-diagnosis_

Or something.

He chuckles to himself, then puts the papers and books all back on the pile, closing the door behind him and making his way to the kitchen where he is planning to try out those soy bean recipes the _Octavia’s Organics_ lady gave him.

*

Collin and Harry return from school (and work) with a calming, content smile to their faces which heaves the massive stone off Louis’ heart that had been resting there for quite a while now.

Louis kisses his sons forehead and lifts him up when he runs into the kitchen (Louis is currently cleaning up – soy bean recipes do not, _do not_ promise a successful meal). Collin rests above Louis’ cocked out hipbones, toying with Louis’ ear and Harry watches them from where he’s stood near the doorway. He grins in a way that is too mischievous to be childish.

“Did you have a good day, Col?” And _wow_ , for the first time in forever Louis’ cheery voice is _real_ and _genuine_. Not forcefully produced in the sore back of his throat. Louis even believes to witness that the _‘mhm’_ Collin breathes out sounds more gratified than usual.

Setting him down again Collin runs off to their shared bedroom and leaves his dear father and Harry alone in the kitchen. Harry, who is still sporting that endearing yet unsettling smirk.

“Cut the bullshit, H. What is it?” (Louis desolately tries to bury the fond and mischief in his voice, bury it like a coffin in the cemetery. But it’s raining cats and dogs and all the dirt washes away to reveal: _the not so dead corpse of Louis Tomlinson’s devotion._ Damn, Louis used to be so much better at metaphors back when he still though about their relevance during his studies.) Though Louis turns towards him purposely he did not intend Harry to come closer as well, taking a lengthy stride in his direction.

A low hum comes from Harry’s lips, echoing wonderfully in the blacks of Louis’ mind. “Well…” The smirk stays.

“Go on already, will you!” Louis goes very far and very much out of his comfort zone as he pokes Harry in the chest, lightly shoving him against the kitchen counter. The warmth he feels at the tips of his fingers when he touches him opens up a new comfort zone, but we are not to talk about this at this very moment. Louis shoves the thought of this all, the warmth, Harry, everything, to the back of his mind. (It aligns with a lot of feelings he’s encountered in his teenage years.)

“Well…” He starts again. His hands are coming close – _what the_ – Harry lifts him up with his huge, _huge, **huge**_ hands and puts him on the kitchen counter. Just. Puts him on the kitchen counter. And now, that’s new. New closeness, new warmth, new touch, new everything. _But Louis is 27?! 27! You can’t lift him up and place him on counters like a doll!_ Or maybe you can. (Harry just proofed you can.)

“I might happen to have a job for you.” The wicked, childish grin is now spreading, tinting his cheeks and brightening his eyes to a shade of green that puts the spring’s trees and blooms to shame.

“D-Don’t put me on the counter, first of all.” Louis says with a smile he is absolutely and entirely unable to hide. Harry leans against the counter in a way too casual manner regarding that he just made a real move. ( _Not that Louis minds._ )

“A friend of mine at work suggested something today.” _How dare he move on without commenting? Louis can still feel the soft pressure of his fingers beneath his arms!_

“They have a cute lil’ daughter, she’s five nor, or six. No, she’s five. And his wife has been taking care of her a lot lately so now they’re kind of switching, you know? Now he’ll be staying home taking care of lil’ Phyllis and she’ll be going back to work. And she – Olivia’s her name – works part-time at this community college at the east end of the city where she gives evening classes for adults.”

The finish line is nowhere near being in sight. Harry is insane. In the dark pits of his black mind he hopes Harry fucks the way he talks.

“And apparently she said that they’re in shortage of teachers right now. So I asked her what teachers they were looking for.”

“Harry, don’t you dare fool me about this.” Louis – still in his position on the kitchen counter, being _very_ content, thank you very much – grips the edge of the surface with anticipation.

“They’re in search of language tutors, Louis! German, Spanish – _preferably French, they said_!”

All the stress and panic and […] from the past eternity drain from Louis’ face like _God, he’s become so bad at metaphors_ and there is so much relief flooding over Louis’ features, he feels rescued. As if he’d been drowning all along but the water never let him now, always created this vacuum around his ears and eyes that made him think he was alright, he’d manage. Now Harry is throwing life vests like confetti and Louis is at a new year’s party.

“F-French? As in the French I studied for four years?” His bum at the soft edge of the counter, Louis almost topples over. _French._

“I wouldn’t know any other French.” Louis mentally throws a punch to himself and the now somewhat frog-like face of Harry.

“D-Do you think I can apply? Are they going to employ someone like me?” Confidence gone. Hopes raised. Voice shaking.

“I don’t see why they wouldn’t?”

_Pros: Outstanding results in every single semester of his studies. Good experience._

_Cons: Raises a 6 year old child all by himself. No permanent domicile. No car. Raises a 6 year old child all by himself._

*

Four days _plus tard_ Louis has officially got two jobs. The last time he witnessed himself in a situation like this was almost 7 years ago, back at uni where him and (pregnant) Frances were bathing in debts like in a Jacuzzi and he busied himself with waiting at Applebee’s, donating blood on a weekly asis and doing lousy promotion jobs for stores he didn’t shop at in streets whose names he never heard of. (Or wanted to hear of. Everything smelled mildly like cat piss.)

He works at Octavia’s Organics from 9 to 2 Monday through Friday and gives evening classes from 7 to 10 Wednesday through Saturday. It’s a lot, but it works. Or so it does until Frances finds out and shows up on their ( _their? Harry’s?_ ) doorstep.

 

“Fran- what are you doing here?” It’s goddamn Sunday and Louis is in his joggers and a dirty t-shirt (him and Harry have both stopped to care) and _it’s a goddamn Sunday and it’s not a Frances-weekend for Collin._

“Where is Collin, Louis?” Her voice is firm and her car stands just across the door by the pedestrian with open doors and a child’s car seat. As if aiming for prey, her gaze is directed right past Louis into the corridor and where Collin – _his_ son might be.

Her eyes panic Louis. He broadens himself in the doorframe, trying to fill up as much space as possible. They both know it doesn’t make him appear any more intimidating. Louis knows that this effect _would_ work on Harry. “How do you know I live here?”

[ _They’ve grown closer. A lot closer, lately. Harry kisses his cheeks when he comes home. He urges always urges him to call it ‘home’ and Louis feels like the issues he’s had with doing so finally start to let loose and let him at least pretend to be home._

_Truth be told, the kisses he receives do feel like home and he knows that he’s had them before, had Harry kiss his cheeks and hug him and leave gentle touches before. They’ve been this close. It’s not new. But it must have gone missing a long time ago._

_And now it’s back and Louis finds himself leaning into the warmth he feels when his hands hold his waist while he’s trying to squeeze through the narrow space between the two kitchen counters._

_When Collin falls sick one weekend, he snores unbearably loud, stirs Louis awake in his never peaceful sleep. Meanwhile Collin seems locked up in sleep, unaware of everything, including his snores. And it’s not like Louis doesn’t try to ignore it, doesn’t toss and turn and cover his ears with his pillow in order to mute the sound at least a little. He tries so hard but it’s 3.26 AM and he thinks he’s had enough of not sleeping._

_Never would he have gone to Harry’s room, knocked on the door softly only to find an adorably confused Harry with sleep-printed hair and a loathsome mid-sleep breath yet inviting arms in a king-sized bed, shamefully white sheets and enough space for a man Louis’ size to sprawl out comfortably._

_Instead, Louis drops his pillow on the couch and falls facedown onto it, briefly considering whether the cracking noise he just heard was his spine or the springs hidden in the flesh of the dear furniture (3.29 AM)._

_“Uhm” Now, that was neither the bed spring nor any part of Louis’ tired and apparently stiff body. Harry stands at the foot of the couch with a glass of water in his big, big hands and his hair pulled into this man-bun – one of its kinds – and Harry is even more beautiful in the night. Not that Louis would have admitted he found him beautiful throughout the day but (3.30AM now)._

_“Hey” His position is 100 % uncomfortable, he swears he must be doing yoga – the worm raising its head towards the sun, or something – but Harry is beautiful and nice to look at and Louis doesn’t want to look down._

_“Uh,” Somewhere in his memory he has a logical explanation stored. He’s had one for why he chose French for his major though he was better at Latin, he had one for his divorce though he claimed to love her still, he’s had one for when he got a hard-on that one time Harry bolted through the house in just his underpants – which brings him back to this very moment. The one that is happening right now. The one where he can’t find his logical explanation because Harry is half-naked again and that just does not support the searching process._

_“Everything alright, Lou?” The thought, why Harry’s voice is still so raspy and rough even though he must have drunk some of his water already is rather irrelevant. It stays inside Louis’ head for a long time. Searching process still ongoing._

_“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Louis quits the yoga and sits up properly. “’s just that Col’s snoring excessively right now. Excessively, yeah.” He awkwardly stifles a yawn (you know the deal). “So couch it is tonight.”_

_“No, it’s not.” Harry and his underpants take a step forward and he grabs the pillow Louis has (not) so carefully placed on the sofa._

_“It’s what?” Logical explanation on its way! “Harry, it’s fine. The couch is okay. Give me-“_

_“Up we go” Louis’ arm is locked firmly but safely in Harry’s grip and he gets pulled up to a sitting position._

_“Harry, I’m not gonna sleep in a room with my son snoring like a lawnmower. Please leave me be.”_

_“’M not saying you are. Come sleep in my bed. Just for tonight, huh? ‘S way better than the couch.”_

_And who – w h o is Louis to argue about that at 3.31 AM? King sized bed. Shamefully white sheets. Enough space for a man Louis’ size to sprawl out comfortably. Also: Harry._

_“Don’t want to have you sleep on the couch though. Not comfy. I might have just broken a spring. Or my back.” He says while lazily following Harry up the stairs._

_“So you admit it?” Harry throws a casual smile at the tiny shadow that follows him. Louis feels as if he’s being bombarded with glee and loveliness and sex-appeal all at the same time. It’s horrid but he wants to drown in it._

_“Admit what? I don’t admit anything. Except that my back isn’t in good shape.” The walk up the stairs seems perpetual._

_“You admitted that the couch is uncomfortable. I’m never gonna let you sleep on the couch.” His bare foot touches the last step._

_Defeated and unwilling to argue at this hour, Louis slumps his shoulders and slips inside Harry’s room when he opens the door for him. As expected, there is a king-sized bed with unbearably (!) white sheets and twice the space for a man Louis’ size to sprawl out comfortably. It smells faintly of roses and something else – lavender maybe – and the light is dim, the only source being the lamp on the right side of Harry’s bed. King-sized bed._

_“The couch is just right for me, my friend.”_ You’re more. _“But it’s not good enough for you and your pretty back. Can’t ruin that one.” Everything looks and smells so inviting, Louis forces himself not to fall onto the bed right away, sniff the sheets and collapse into deep slumber that will have him snoring even louder than Collin._

_“Get some rest, Louis.” Harry’s voice accompanies his hand softly, as he reaches for Louis and makes him lay down. Feeling the mattress safely under his spine, his ribs, his skin, he allows himself to turn his body and curl up slightly, resembling… a snail._

_Harry moves in big strides to the other side of the bed, looking as if he’s fleetingly contemplatingwhether to put on a shirt and some pants to which Louis wearilyanswers ‘Get the fuck in, will you’. So he shrugs and plumps his little bum on the mattress before swinging his long legs onto the bed._

_Eyes closed. Lights out. Room dark._

_“Coelho, huh?” The picture of the massive pile in the little chamber at the end of the hallway returns faintly in the clouds of Louis’ mind._

_“What?”_

_“I saw you enjoy Paulo Coelho. Or was your attic lying to me?” (3.36 AM)_

_“My attic? Louis, what are you talking about?” 3.37 AM – no reply. The sleep-warriors Louis always tells Collin about have taken over him. Louis has given up. The fight is lost and so is he, his breathing turning steady yet loud in the warm, crisp, cloudy air of Harry’s room. Louis – in his dreams as well as full-conscious – wants to be here more often. Breathe this air more often and feel the sheets more often. Harry’s sheets._

_Harry smiles at the small, limp body pillowed in the sheets that create such a striking disparity compared to his faintly tanned skin. His lax, tranquil face pushes the thought of how Louis knew about his inclination for Coelho’s novels to the abyss of his mind._

_Eyelashes, lips, hair. Arms now spread out on the bed resembling an all to proud eagle and Harry contently fits himself into what little space is left next to the radiating warmth of him. It is so much more than enough. He could feel him from a forty miles distance just as well._

_*_

_Louis doesn’t know what stirs him awake. Except for a nagging sense that seems to pull his hair the way 2-year-old Collin did, he feels unusually comfortable, warm, protected even. He feels his own breath being thrown back at him from his (Harry’s?) pillow. A hand absently grazes his exposed stomach – shirt ridden all the way up and Louis should feel uncomfortable but he’s not – and it takes him too many seconds to grasp that it’s Harry’s._

_When he finds out, he decides not to mind: it’s warm and it makes his muscles jump in a good way, makes him think he actually feels the electric impulses his nerves send through his body._

_He doesn’t even focus on Harry’s defined stomach he can see from where he’s tucked under his muscular arm (he feels pudgy, but good), or on his pecs he could technically twist between his cold fingers. And it’s true, he focuses principally on the warmth that spreads from him._

_Minutes and minutes and minutes pass before Louis finally speaks up, the words tumbling out of his trachea (repeat: not a biology student) alongside a burning itch._

_“Hey”_

_“Hey, Haz?” Louis gently scratches Harry’s arm that is thrown across his face like a safety belt._

_“Harry” Remembering that Harry was never one to wake up easy, Louis scratches harder and eventually pinches the skin on his chest. Harry wakes up with a groan that is rather divine._

_“’S it?”_

_“I think I’ll sneak back to Col now, don’t want him to think I left him alone at night.”_

_“Mhm” Louis’ personal human seatbelt tightens._

_“Five more minutes, please, I don’t-“ Louis leans over and presses his lips to Harry’s cheeks carefully._

_“Alright, five more minutes.”_

_It turns out a little more than five minutes, but Louis still wakes up before Collin does. He aggressively ignores the signs of morning wood Harry shows when he slips out of bed and keeps his thoughts to his son. His lovely, lovely son and good god, he wants Harry real bad what the f. ]_

So on this very afternoon Frances happens to stand in front of the door and Louis is rather clueless. If he didn’t know all those embarrassing and awful childhood stories of her and her odd little secrets, he would almost find her intimidating.

“Louis, I’ve been told you live like this and I know this is going to make me look like the evil witch I love being but I don’t want Collin to be here.” She sounds astoundingly phlegmatic and it drives Louis insane.

Maybe this is what never worked out between them. Him, the flamboyant, dramatic melancholic and her. Frances. The one who managed so well not to _care_. Oh, how Louis had admired her back when they started out.

“What do you mean _live like this_? I actually dare to say we’re both having quite a good time here.” He refers to the fun baking that is going on far behind his back in the kitchen – Collin and Harry trying out new recipes he’s given at _Octavia’s_ – and then again he also refers to occasionally hearing Harry get off in his room and later on joining him and cuddling, pretending he didn’t hear nothing at all. Everything is indiscernible for Frances.

“Collin is not ready to have a new father, Louis.” _Why why why exactly are they having this debate mere two metres away from the front porch?_

“Harry is not his new father, Frances! What are you talking about – we’ve lived here for a couple weeks and we’re both doing fine and Harry’s being lovely and taking great care of _our_ son, if I may remind you.” Louis snaps back. His blood feels like it’s starting to boil, preparing to cook noodles in it.

“Well, I can see that Harry is _being lovely_.”

The noodles are ready.

Louis hand shoots up to his neck, covering the left side with his spread fingers, trying to find a thing to say but he cannot find _a thing_ because his brain is just like his blood: full of noodles.

Blue. Purple. Red around the edges. A bruise. Garlanding his neck like a flaming jewel.

“That’s-“ Louis searches for an apology, though he knows he shouldn’t be. _It’s his own freaking neck and Harry’s own freaking mouth._

Harry’s mouth. Louis thinks he can feel the bruise burning his fingers where he has them placed on top of it. His mind traces back to yesterday night. Nothing big had happened, considering the cherished sharing of lazy – very lazy kisses is really nothing compared to some other experiences both Louis and Frances had.

“Collin really doesn’t need this.” If Louis hadn’t been monitoring her all the time he might have missed the quick, faint movement of Frances’ foot, looking like an attempt to enter and convince his son to join her. _Their_ son, whatever.

“Doesn’t need _what_? Frances, we’re fine. Don’t worry about Collin, or Harry, or _God beware_ , me.”

Louis wondered whether it was the point of the conversation they were having or his sanity, but something _very minuscule, irrelevant_ just drifted off into the sun that weakly kept itself above the surface of the horizon.

He wants the sun back. And his sanity. And the point of this conversation.

The entire fucking universe couldn’t possibly suggest a better moment for Harry to turn up than, well, _now._

“You alright there?” Singular. Harry directs the question to Louis, places his hand gently on his waist _[since they now sleep in the same bed more than once]_ and then, only then realizes the presences of Frances, who has her perfectly shaped eyebrows raised as if she had just proofed something. (Back in the Uni days Louis always loved her for her eyebrows. He loved her for absolutely everything. Now he cringes at how flawless every single hair finishes off with the other.)

Harry startles, clearly caught off guard and feeling tremendously uneasy. It almost hurts Louis.

“Hey, Frances. How have you been? Don’t you want to come in? I’ll make some tea. Or coffee.” But he doesn’t step back, doesn’t make space for her to come in. Doesn’t even flinch. Everything – everyone stays put; Louis, Frances, Harry. The only exception being Harry’s hand on Louis waist that applies just a tiny bit more pressure, more reassurance, more _it’s alright don’t worry I’m here_ than before.

“I’ll be gone right away, Harry. Don’t you make an effort. We’ll speak later, yes, Louis? I’m going to call you this week. And will you tell Collin to come out here and say hello?” It’s not a question, it’s an order and Harry follows suit.

“Decide whom you love more, first before dragging everyone into this.” Is what she says before Collin wraps around her thighs and hugs her warmly. Louis thinks she only deserves cold.

When she leaves about five minutes later, Louis still feels Harry’s reassuring hand, the _it’s alright don’t worry I’m here_ , against him.

“Will you take care of Col real quick, I still need to finish some papers for class tomorrow.” Half of the sentence disappear within Louis’ murmur as he swiftly strides up the stairs, escaping the hand near his hip that felt just so good only mere minutes ago.

_Decide whom you love more._

_Fucking bullshit._

_And Louis starts to see her point, doesn’t comprehend that it’s purely fictional._

*

He sleeps awful. Louis never felt the dip where Harry’s body laid beside him, heavy with sleep. Now, 2.50 AM according to the big clock vis à vis Harry’s bed, Louis feels his weight more than ever. As (beautifully) usual, Harry has his bare back turned to Louis. Louis, who usually throws an arm around him, lazily stroking his stomach, calming them both. (Harry likes being the little spoon. _Loves it._ Louis is used to being the big spoon and wanted to protest, though back when this debate come up, he did not yet know how _nice_ it was to wake up with _Harry’s_ hair in his mouth.)

Tonight he feels Harry’s body hot, boiling against him – no way near the good, enjoyable way but in a way that makes him suspect to be waiting at the gates of hell. Meanwhile his arm feels cold, not dead-body-cold but cold enough to make him cringe at the temperature-difference of them both that just won’t shrink.

He craves for Frances’ words to become unsaid. To go back in time and make him _ignore_ everything she said, make him _not listen._

Finally, at around 4, the sleep-warriors take over; Louis surrendered hours ago but they took their time, obviously wanting him to suffer from temporary insomnia.

The next morning he wakes up unmotivated, unhappy and uncomfortable tucked into Harry’s side. He’s freaking torn between just leaving or kissing his chest all over and asking him to tell him he’s being a good father, a good friend, a good _everything_. He leaves.

 

“Col? Hey, pal. C’mon, get up.” Louis softly shakes his son, who is now fast asleep on the big mattress they placed in the guest room when they moved in since Louis spent the nights of the previous week in Harry’s room, Collin being as cheery as ever with _‘as much bed as Papa’._

“I’m taking you out for breakfast, love. But you’ve got to hurry or we’ll be late for school, yeah?” Collin opens his sleep-struck eyes at the mention of ‘breakfast’ and finally, _finally_ Louis starts to recognize some similarity again.

“Where are we going?” He takes Emma, the elephant and shoves the blanket to the edge of the mattress, eventually grabs his father’s offered hand. “Wherever you want to.”

Louis leaves a note for Harry.

*

The tranquillity wakes him up. No sound of electric tooth brushes in the upper bathroom. No stomping down the stairs. No _Mighty Oakes_ or _The Black Keys_ blasting downstairs and no Louis swinging his hips to it. Against all expectations, it’s not nice. Harry loves the resonance of childish laughter and high-pitched giggles and the clash he can hear when mugs, bowls, plates are accidentally dropped into the sink.

He loves being randomly including in heated play-debates when he comes down from his room in the morning, agreeing that _yes, Collin is right – some cats can be twice the size of dogs – he actually knows one, her name is Emily._

Breakfast is just silence, _The Devil and Miss Prym_ and the clinking noise of his fork against the plate of scrambled eggs with basil. Louis is missing. Collin is missing. It’s almost cheesy. Harry wishes he had the decency of _Paulo._

 

Harry, of course, notices. Everything. Starting at the way Louis doesn’t fall into his arms as fast and furiously as he used to and not ending at how often he spends time with Collin alone, as if to avoid Harry spending time with Louis _and_ Collin.

And as much as it kind hurts him, Harry knows it can’t go on forever. 

 

_Decide whom you love more._

With Louis becoming more and more busy with the papers he has to correct for his French class of 40+ year olds, Harry gets to spend more time with Collin, which benefits both of them beautifully. (Collin even introduces Harry to Emma and in return Harry acquaints him with Arabella, his petunia.) Now Collin even trusts him with fixing the wax on his braces when they rub against his gums again.

*

“It’s _je me suis reveillé,_ Sonja. You use _être_ for _passé composé_ with reflexive verbs. _Je me suis lavé. Tu t’es maquillé. Elle s’est brossée les dents._ ”

The endless torture of teaching French-newbies about reflexive verbs in _passé composé_ does not halt at evening schools for adults. They seem to refuse to understand even more crossly than his college students.

An exam is dated in two weeks’ time and neither Louis nor Sonja, nor Kev, nor Jesse, nor Jaques – who, according to his name should be freaking _fluent_ – are emotionally ready.

They spent ages on the objective pronouns so Louis tries desperately to teach at least a little more stuff before the exam, always staying 30 awful minutes longer than ‘necessary’. (Now, it _is_ necessary.)

Last week when he did so, Collin needed to be brought home by the mother of one of his friends. Embarrassing. Stressful. Louis is in desperate need of some… well, of _anything_ good, really.

 _How-many-times-have-I-retold-the-story-of-the-reflexive-verb-already_ -day is a Thursday. Louis hates Thursdays more than anything now. Maybe because it was now 10.45 and it was getting colder and darker outside and with the cold grew the amount of minutes Louis would be having to wait for the next bus. Maybe it was because his phone was empty which denied him access to contact _anyone._ (Harry. Who would he call if not Harry?) Maybe – _mainly_ it was because he feels like rotting inside not being with Collin, _whom he loves._

The ride home is hell. There is a couple across from him on the bus and they are making him sick with the looks they give each other, the subtlety with which they attempt to trade touches and how it makes him feel like loneliness pierces rusty nails through his hand.

_Decide whom you love more._

When he turns the key around in its lock the clicking noise stays in his head. Every thud his dirty trainers make when they touch the wooden steps is audible within the walls of his brain for longer than he ever wanted. Louis doesn’t know the source of the feelings that scrape down his throat, brutally squeeze his lungs and makes his feet ache as if they were richly covered in blisters.

*

“It hurts again, Harry.” Collin sits with his legs crossed on the carpeted floor of Harry’s room and pouts, his fingers tucked into his mouth and brushing them over the little buds that sit on his teeth.

Harry, who sits across him in the same position leans over with furrowed eyebrows. “Let’s put some more wax on, yeah? C’mon, love.”

After he helps him stick the transparent wax to his teeth, Collin examines it in the mirror, _showing your teeth like a lion, huh?_

Harry checks his phone. No message from Louis and it’s getting late. Late as in, bed-time for sweet six-year-old-sons of teen crushes that have you pining for every touch. 

 

 

“Harry, I’m so sorry – everyone still wanted to know stuff that I already told them and then my phone – I forgot to charge it last night and it just shut itself off and I don’t know your number by heart and then I missed the last bus so –“ Harry succeeds at the 32nd attempt of interrupting Louis in his self-blaming speech.

“It’s fine! Louis, it’s fine. Collin’s asleep, he’s alright.”

“Teeth brushed? Did you put enough wax on the braces? I better check or he’s-“ He tries to move past him but Harry grabs him softly by the shoulders ad moves him backwards against the wall.

“Done. Louis, I’ve done it. He’s fast asleep with enough wax on his teeth and I told him I’d have to suffice for tonight. That he’d be going to sleep with me taking care of him.” And Louis never ever wanted this (he did, oh hell, he did) but he’s got Harry’s warm yet by some means cooling hands hold him still, decreasing the sultriness of Louis’ cheeks that have heated up even though he’s run through the cold of the night for 20 minutes.

“Did he let you? Put him to sleep? H-He usually only lets me, or Frances or my mother do it.”

“Yeah, I mean he was a little mopey and moody _(Lie. Collin made a huge fuss kicking and whining but Harry’s calm must have irritated him. Two bedtime stories and 30 minutes of hair-stroking later Collin’s eyes finally closed for what would hopefully be eight hours.)_ but who isn’t when your dad’s not here to bring you to bed as usual? Oh - oh no, that sounded like an accusation, I – I didn’t mean it like that, Louis. I mean, change is hard for kids, yeah? That’s what, yeah.”

“I – Thank you. I _am_ going to give him a good night kiss real quick though. Can’t sleep myself if I don’t do that.” He lets out a chuckle that sounds far too vulnerable for his liking. Harry’s eyes burn.

“Hey, Louis?” His voice makes this weak crack that everyone knows far too well for their liking. “Come to my room for tea afterwards? I tried that new one you brought from Octavia’s. A-and I changed the bed sheets. And you said you love when you can still smell the washing powder on it, eh?” His smile is frail, unable to convince even the most naïve person.

They still stand face to face, a few more inches between them than before. _Decide whom you love more_. “Give me two minutes, yeah?” With heaps of self-control Louis squeezes Harry’s wrist, trying to be reassuring about something that makes him more uneasy than Harry, but.

Harry’s wrist. Not as intimate as squeezing his hand, yet not as distanced as touching his elbow would have been. (Louis is turning insane.)

 

He doesn’t want to wake Collin, but he does. The little shadow, buried in heaps of blankets looks up at him with eyes that prove the mid-sleep he was just in.

“Hey, baby boy. ‘m sorry to wake you, just wanted to say good night.” He gives him a short kiss and runs his fingers through his hair.

“Night, papa. Can you tell Harry that he needs to read me the last story again because I was so tired, papa.” Two, maybe three seconds pass before Collin closes his eyes again, as if heavy weights rested on them and forced them closed.

“I’ll tell him.”

*

In Harry’s (familiar) room wait a lit, pineapple-scented candle, a fresh, steaming cup of tea and Harry. Louis likes pineapple – it reminds him of his honeymoon in Spain – and he adores the organic tea from Octavia’s. And Harry?

“Rough day?” _Rough month, more like._

“Mhm.” Louis sits with Harry on the bed.

Nothing happens for some seconds (that happen to feel like minutes, as usual, when nothing happens).

“Look, I uhm, something must have been off the past week and I know that something is bothering you? And there is absolutely no obligation for you to tell me what it is? I just wish you would, because I want you happy and I want you to enjoy yourself the way you did when you came here. And I’m only partly saying this because it made me feel like I’m on top of the world as well but, yeah. I. You deserve so much, Lou.”

_This isn’t about setting priorities. This isn’t about deciding who to love. This isn’t about choosing someone over someone else. This isn’t about Frances. About Collin. This isn’t about the time Louis wasn’t bothering to question his sexuality, his preferences. This isn’t about the time in which Louis solely gave himself up for Collin. This is about now. This is about Louis. This is about Harry._

_Months. Months, collect themselves in Louis’ eyes, they irritate his sight, they block everything and yet. They spill. Everything spills._

For this night. For this night Louis cries softly into Harry’s shirt, his shoulder. He constantly feels his hand pressed to his back, pressing his thumb and pointer finger into his shoulder blades in a calming rhythm that draws Louis concentration to it.

Harry warmly cooes into Louis’ neck and kisses him with lips that resemble honey in their gentleness. Louis doesn’t say much. The thousands of thoughts that scoot through his head, from A to B and back to A, none of them find a way to his vocal chords.

Their position steadily moves from hunching at the foot of the bed to the head where Harry keeps Louis sprawled out above him. All the previous months still haven’t stopped leaking out of his eyes in the shape of hot, salty tears.

 

02.18 AM.

 

Louis loves the faded scent of the pineapple candle, still tastes the tea from Octavia’s on his tongue interlaced with the addictive traces that Harry left. And Harry, well.

No less than he loves Collin, Louis loves Harry.

 

 

_[Coming home, going to bed is the best thing in the universe now. Harry reads to Collin, kisses his forehead and stays for 30 more minutes stroking his hair. Harry always finds Louis in his bed now, curled inside himself with an empty space that calls out for Harry. Harry loves him with_

_Three days later, Harry comes home later than everyone, later than usual. Curled together in a mess of limbs, Collin and Harry snore lightly in what is now not a mattress but a real proper bed (it’s blue with little horses on them)._

_“Joining me in bed then, baby?” He mumbles with a kiss against Louis’ hair._

_“Mhm, five more minutes, Haz.” If only he knew Harry would wait five hundred years for him._

_What Harry finds placed neatly on his bedside table, is something he didn’t know of._

_Impacts and consequences of Paulo Coelho’s ‘Veronika decides to die’_

_by Louis Tomlinson_

_Literary studies (advanced)_

_Harry falls deeper, falls more and more and more for Louis with every page turned._


End file.
